Triumvirate
by Laine Montgomery
Summary: While attempting to take Sansa Stark under their protection, the wench and the Kingslayer instead find themselves placed under hers.  Jaime, Sansa, Brienne.
1. Chapter 1

The dark blood remained caked beneath her nails, even as she poured the honeyed wine. She'd changed into a clean gown, washed her hair, scrubbed her pearly skin until it chafed and chapped...and yet the evidence persisted, black as coal, crusty and uncompromising.

She placed a goblet on the table before him, and he waited for her to drink of her own glass before partaking himself. Sweet as it was, the wine stung his throat, and he welcomed the pain, anything to distract from the numbness that threatened to engulf him completely. He'd experienced battle countless times, seen hundreds upon hundreds of corpses, watched men maimed and tortured and broken until he barely registered their suffering. But something about this day...perhaps it was the haphazard, savage nature of it all that troubled him so. Without the ceremony, the prescribed courtesy of war...just a ragtag band of vigilantes, hacking and slicing without skill, without style. _Brienne knew better, Clegane knew better...I __**certainly **__knew better. _And Sansa Stark, her hands coated in a viscous black liquid, standing over the twitching form of the creature who had once been her mother...

"The Maid of Tarth will live, the maester tells me." Her voice was a plateau, still and flat. He couldn't help but feel impressed, even as he pretended to ignore the fact that she'd emptied her glass in one gulp and was reaching once more for the carafe. "She bled out quite a bit, but she's very strong. Strong and brave...a credit to you, Ser Jaime."

"None of the credit belongs to me." He took a long drink of the wine, a lightness spreading through his chest at the news. Brienne would live to see her vow fulfilled, would live to see Sansa Stark safe and well...for the time being, anyway. He tilted his head slightly to one side, verdant eyes trained fully upon the girl. She bristled visibly, but refused to meet his gaze. In the simple kirtle and sash, her hair unbound and still slightly damp, she looked every bit the child that she was. And yet, those eyes...he recalled, absurdly, the minstrel songs that circulated around King's Landing shortly after Sansa's escape, all featuring the beautiful, sad-eyed Lady Lannister and her sudden flight. Cersei quickly discovered the identity of these balladeers, and the sight of the poor wretches staked at the castle wall, maggots breeding in their eye sockets, was enough to quell that particular source of inspiration. _Sad-eyed Lady Lannister. _He wondered what she would do if he called her "sister", then dismissed the thought.

The silence swelled between them, clinging to the walls, the table, the ground. He picked up his goblet with his golden hand, grateful for the sound of metal against metal. Sansa flinched, and he smiled involuntarily. With his left hand, he lifted the carafe and refilled her glass. "Keep drinking. It will help."

Those tragic, song-worthy blue eyes narrowed, but she took his suggestion all the same. He waited for her to finish her third glass before speaking: "You know why I am here, my lady."

"I know the reason you've given me." Her expression was hard and blank, but the effects of the wine were apparent in the flush upon her high cheekbones. She spoke no further, so he continued:

"My vow, and the Lady Brienne's vow, was to ensure your safety. In the interest of keeping that vow, I must insist that we depart from the Vale as soon as possible."

"I don't see why." She placed her palms upon the table and leaned forward, and he was startled to notice a steely glint in her expression that hadn't been there before. After years of Aerys and Tywin and Cersei, he'd grown wary of cold ambition, and to see it on a girl so young...

"As I see it, there's no safer place in the world for me. These men, Littlefinger's men...they know me as Alayne Stone, their lord's devoted daughter. Enough of these men witnessed...what happened..." -she paused to swallow, and he exhaled in slight relief- "...that I am safely perceived as a victim. They will wish to protect me, to protect the Vale, and once I get word to Ha-" Here she stopped, obviously fearing that she'd spoken too freely. And she had. Her plan wasn't the worst he'd heard, but teemed with assumptions and conditions that she clearly hadn't allowed herself to carefully consider. _Littlefinger or no Littlefinger, she is a child after all._

He momentarily considered charming her, giving her his pretty face and roguish smile- but no sooner did the thought enter his head than he rejected it with disgust- as though THIS girl, his put-upon little good-sister, the last vestige of the Stark name, could ever again find beauty in a golden lion, much less a middle-aged, fading cripple. Perhaps appealing to her sentiment, speaking of his promise to her mother...but even he, Jaime Lannister, couldn't bear such cruelty. Instead, he recalled the striving gleam in her eyes and spoke through logic.

"Maybe so, my lady. But there are too many now who know who you are, and you are still..." _Wanted for murder. _The words hung heavily between them, and she quirked her eyebrow, as though daring him to speak them aloud. But he would not oblige. He rose from his chair and crossed to kneel beside her. He could smell the wine on her breath as he brought his face close to hers, his voice even and quiet. "Let me hide you, Sansa. Let me make you invisible, and you'll never fear again." _Sansa Stark is my last chance for honor. _He watched her facial muscles soften...her heavy head dipped very slightly, until her cheek barely grazed his matted curls. Green eyes met blue, and he noticed a different, a brighter glow...perhaps hope? He placed his left hand upon hers, and her littlest finger softly hooked over his as she surely imagined this life, anonymous and wholly secure...

And then she snapped upright, removing her hand from his and tightening her face once more. "I will not. I will not leave the Vale."

He rose to his feet in an impatient huff, his head swimming with spirits and frustration. _Tomorrow. Tomorrow, I'll make her see reason. _"I bid you a good night, my lady. I must rise early to consult with the maesters and learn when the Lady Brienne and I can continue on our way."

As he pushed the door open, he heard her voice behind him, a resolute staccato:

"I am not leaving the Vale."

"As you say, my lady." He began to step down the corridor, until her next words halted him completely:

"And neither are you."


	2. Chapter 2

_Pat-pat, pat-pat..._the sound of bare feet upon the parapets, echoing through the cavern between her ears. She blinked her eyes, blood-shot with dryness and exhaustion- she may have managed an hour of sleep, probably less. She generally preferred to dress herself, but the effort required to style her hair and affix the necessary veil proved as much as she could bear. Whispering a "thank-you" to her dressing maid, she took a perfunctory look in the glass and scowled at the dark circles beneath her eyes. The sight of her face, twisted in disgust, put her in mind of Arya, so she did it again. A harsh pricking at her tear ducts, and she waited for the tears, hoping they'd be over quickly. But her dessicated eyes refused to yield any moisture, and she turned away from the glass, adjusting the veil until it rested flat upon the crown of her head. The auburn at her roots was growing more and more prominent, spreading almost to her ears- until she could have the color re-applied, she must take care to cover up, always. Before leaving her room, she crossed to the barely-perceivable door near the window, thoroughly camouflaged by stone and tapestry. This passage, taken in combination with the acoustics of the chamber, permitted sound to pass clearly between Sansa's bedroom and the one on the other side of the wall. A clever architectural trick, and one that had robbed her of many a night's sleep. _Littlefinger liked to pace, too. Pat-pat, pat-pat..._

When she'd instructed the servants to prepare Jaime Lannister's chambers directly beside her own, she'd been met with hesitation. "Your father's body is barely cold...putting his killer in his bedchamber, it would be considered unseemly..." the steward had stuttered, and Sansa had been unable to control her sharpness of tone: "He didn't kill my father. Speak not of what you do not know. And do as I say." The septa had voiced a different concern, explaining in no uncertain terms that for a maiden to take chambers so close to a man not her husband breached every rule of propriety. Sansa merely lifted an eyebrow and laughed, refusing to dignify the suggestion with any further reply. She misliked the idea of guards placed close to her own bedchamber, but she ensured the security of each exit, even those unknown to the guards. _I haven't been here long, and already I know the castle far better than they. Jaime Lannister isn't going anywhere._

She crossed the castle, arriving in the wing belonging to the young Lord Arryn. Uncertain of how to explain to her cousin the events of the previous day, she blurted the news of Littlefinger's death rather more bluntly than she'd intended. However, she needn't have worried; the lordling merely shrugged off the information and climbed upon her lap. "Finish the story, Alayne...the one you began last week." Sansa took several moments to recall the absurd fairy story she'd fashioned on the spot, but she stumbled over the conclusion as her cousin pressed his gaunt cheek against her bosom and wrapped his arms about her waist. Her hand ghosted over his dark hair, and she felt a sudden pang of tenderness for the boy. _Robert Arryn, little Lord of the Vale. _She'd always known, without being told, that Littlefinger's ultimate plan would call for the child's death. In that quiet room in the castle, Sweetrobin held firmly against her heart, she swore to herself that the boy's blood would never stain her hands. _The gods may take him if they choose, but I will not wield the knife._

When the septas took the little lord away for his lessons, Sansa proceeded to the maesters' wing. The expected voices wafted down the corridor, and she followed them to the room farthest from the antechamber. Stepping into the doorway, she beheld Ser Jaime in a wooden chair beside a plush bed, summarizing the events of day before to a stricken-looking Lady Brienne. The Maid of Tarth had lost nearly all color in her face- somehow, the paleness made her freckles even more prominent. Her lovely eyes- _by far her best feature- _grew dark as Ser Jaime spoke: "Ser Hyle...Brienne. I'm sorry." The young woman closed her eyes briefly, her head nodding forward. "And what of Pod?"

"The boy is alive, but very weak. He's in the room at the end of the corridor- I'll take you to him when you can walk again." Jaime Lannister leaned slightly toward the bed, and Sansa watched his left hand twitch, as though he'd considered reaching for Brienne, but thought better of it.

"And Lady Catelyn." Brienne's voice lowered to a barely-discernable whisper, and Sansa felt a familiar nausea seize her stomach. "She's..."

"Not Lady Catelyn, Brienne. Do not think of her that way." Ser Jaime's golden head shook back and forth, and his emerald eyes fixed upon the Maid of Tarth with a surprising urgency. "It will drive you mad."

"Who else was with us, Jaime? I cannot remember...is that terrible?" Ser Jaime uttered a hoarse sound akin to a laugh, and Brienne continued, "Sandor Clegane. Is he alive?"

_Sandor! _Sansa found herself suddenly unable to sustain her silence: "He lives." The fair-haired knights both turned their heads sharply, and she was surprised at the incredible warmth within Brienne's sapphire-blue eyes. "Lady Sansa." Her voice trembled, and Sansa restrained the urge to embrace the prone woman. _I like her, I cannot help it. And I think I can trust her..._ She smiled, the first true smile she'd experienced in what seemed like years, only to be sharply interrupted by Jaime Lannister's dry comment:

"Yes, he lives. And he's gone, surely far from the Vale by now." He kept his gaze focused upon Sansa and raised his eyebrows. She found herself thinking of how satisfying it would be to dig her nails into his face and scratch until those chiseled cheeks ran red. He continued, a bitter edge seeping into his tone: "Would you care to explain why, Lady Sansa?"

Explain? How could she explain? Her trust in Sandor Clegane was uncompromising, absolute..._he saved me, risked his life, would never harm me, not ever..._When the battle ended, when he asked her leave to depart, what else could she say but yes? _He did not wish to stay. _The thought pained her more than she cared to admit, but she lifted her chin, fixing Jaime Lannister with the hardest stare she could muster.

"I do not need to explain anything to you, Ser Jaime."

His face spread into an unpleasant sneer, and he glanced at Brienne before speaking again. "I suppose it isn't her fault. She has little experience holding hostages, after all. One must forgive certain...errors."

"Jaime," Brienne murmured, touching his arm in warning. For her part, Sansa felt an embarrassed, frustrated blush engulf her face. _Hostages. Gods, what an ugly word. _As though she was holding them out of cruelty, as though her actions could be compared to what Cersei Lannister had done to her... Her nails dug into her palms as she steadied her breathing. _Jaime Lannister is an arrogant fool. You have the power, you have the soldiers, he is at your mercy. Let the lion mewl. _She straightened her posture, attempting to summon some of her mother's poise:

"When I want your advice, Ser Jaime, I'll be sure to ask for it. Otherwise, your _opinions _will only force me to reconsider my hospitality." She turned to regard Brienne, the smile returning to her face as she nodded. "Lady Brienne, I am glad to see you looking so well. I shall return soon to check on your progress." Pivoting on her heel, she swept down the hallway. Although she could not discern the words, she heard Brienne's even voice quelling Ser Jaime's grumblings. _He does have a point. I'm not Littlefinger, I have no plan beyond this..._The realization was so terrifying that she struggled to breathe, bracing herself against a nearby wall. _If only my father was here...either father... _Her cheek pressed against the cold stone, and she felt the tears come at last.


	3. Chapter 3

An ache spread throughout her body as she slid to the edge of the bed, flat feet pressing into the rug beneath her. Gritting her teeth, she stood upright, forcing herself to be grateful for the sharp tingling in her limbs. _If I can feel, then I can heal. _An old battlefield saying that she'd never quite believed, but now she had no other choice. Her steps were as clumsy as a newborn colt's, but she eventually made her way to the window. She smoothed her hands over the clean shift she wore, reached up with a wince to touch her straw-colored hair, neatly plaited down her back. _I can't remember the last time I was so clean, so well-kempt. _Her cheek rested on the stone of the windowframe, and she took a deep inhale of the air, fresh and sweet. Cerulean eyes scanned the nicely-maintained castle grounds, surveyed the clear sky. _A beautiful day...a beautiful place._

A light rapping of knuckles against wood, and Brienne slowly turned to behold Lady Sansa, standing in the doorway. The girl carried a finely-carved wooden lute, and her face spread into a bright grin as she moved a step forward. "I'm so glad to see you on your feet, Lady Brienne. And your color is much improved."

Brienne returned the smile, still almost unable to believe that Sansa Stark was standing before her, healthy and beautiful, alive and well. _I thought I'd been sent on a fool's errand, but I found her. We found her._ "I thank you for the accommodations, my lady. The maesters and maids have kept me very comfortable." She shifted her gaze to the well-polished lute. "A beautiful instrument, my lady. Do you play?"

"Oh, not well." Sansa laughed lightly, shoulders moving up and down in a sheepish shrug. "I can pluck out a few tunes, and Lord Robert likes music, so I play for him on occasion." She stepped forward, lute in hand, extending it toward Brienne? "Do you play? You're welcome to it, if you'd like."

Brienne _did _play. A harsh pang knocked at her chest as she recalled the evenings in Renly's court, when he'd ask her to sing to him. His handsome face serene in the candlelight, her enormous joy at this particular connection they could share...she realized she'd been silent for far too long, and so she spoke: "Yes, I do play. I fear, however, that my hands are still too weak." The girl nodded, began to angle her body toward the door- to her surprise, Brienne found herself loath to relinquish Sansa's company. "But if you'd like to practice, I'd be very pleased to listen."

The trilling little laugh again, this time accompanied by a blush that only heightened Sansa's prettiness. "I should be too embarrassed."

"Please." Brienne gestured toward the bed, and Sansa hesitantly perched herself on the edge. "Very well," she conceded. "But you must take care not to mock me when I'm through...I did warn you, after all."

"Of course not, my lady." Brienne lowered herself into the wooden chair by the window as Sansa began to softly pluck at the strings, her clarion voice carrying a lovely, unfamiliar melody. The morning light brightened the dull ends of Sansa's brown hair, causing it to adopt an almost coppery glow. She looked for all the world like a wood fairy, radiant and innocent-_I barely know her, but I think I could care for her...not just for Lady Catelyn's sake, but for her own. _

So lost was she in the music and her own reverie that she barely noticed Jaime's entrance into the chamber. He moved to stand behind Sansa, watching her with a curious bemusement that Brienne couldn't define. Finally, Brienne acknowledged his entrance: "Good morning, Jaime."

Sansa dropped the lute on her lap, whipping her head around to regard the intruder. Jaime smiled, that arrogant little smirk that Brienne despised, and crossed to the window. "Please, don't stop on my account." He moved to Brienne's right, extending his golden hand to her. "Shall we?"

Brienne nodded, clenching her fist around the shining metal and squeezing as hard as she could. _Squeeze, release, squeeze, release, over and over again. _When she'd awoken on that first morning, she'd been terrified to discover that she could barely manipulate her extremities. Her fingers and toes would hardly bend, and her grip was weaker than that of an infant. _If I never recover, if I can never hold a sword again..._she expressed her fears to Jaime (hesitantly, for she couldn't help but wonder if it would be an overly-sensitive topic). He'd shaken his head and insisted: "I've seen this before. It's only temporary- the feeling will return. But you must practice your grip- the more you practice, the quicker you'll regain your strength." And so he'd come to her every day, instructed her to grip his golden hand as tightly as she could. "I've no feeling in the hand, but when your grasp is strong enough, I'll feel the pressure in my wrist," he explained. His attention touched her, and she felt constantly grateful for his presence. _Ser Jaime Lannister, the notorious Kingslayer, tourney legend...my truest friend._

Sansa's fingers began to move over the strings once more, with excruciating softness. "Do you sing, Ser Jaime?" she inquired, never troubling to glance up from the lute.

"Not half so sweetly as you, my lady." Sansa looked up then, eyes rolling impatiently. But she was blushing again, a tic that Brienne found quite charming. A sudden recollection sprung into her mind, and the Maid of Tarth caught Sansa's gaze, her tone almost conspiratorial. "He sings. Quite nicely, too, when his songs aren't threatening to get us killed." Jaime threw a surprised glance her way, and Brienne knew the source- time after time, Jaime had teased her for her lack of humor, ridiculing her natural earnestness. She hardly ever tried to give him any of his own back, and she found it fairly satisfying.

"Do you know this song?" Sansa plucked out a few bars of a simple folk ballad, a song well known to all Westerosi. Jaime began to shake his head, but Brienne intercepted: "Of course you do, Jaime. Everyone in the Seven Kingdoms knows that song. Now do show some manners and oblige our lady."

His emerald eyes narrowed, but his voice was only slightly cynical as he asked: "Would that make you happy, Brienne?"

"It would." She grinned brightly, throwing a wink toward Sansa.

"Very well, then." Jaime bowed his head to the girl with the lute. "From the beginning, my lady."

The acoustics in the room were favorable; Sansa could easily manage the simple chords, and Jaime sang with even and pleasant tones. On the second verse, Sansa's silvery voice joined his in harmony, and Brienne smiled in contentment, allowing her eyes to flutter shut. _Yes. For a time, at least, I could be happy here._


	4. Chapter 4

Petyr Baelish had always seemed to Jaime a somewhat prissy man, one who appreciated aesthetics and comfort on a level that bordered on effeminate. The furnishings of his bedchamber reflected the former Lord Protector of the Vale's luxuriant tastes; all velveteen and fur coverlets, polished wood, gold brocade. Not that Jaime minded; he'd never been especially particular about the quality of his lodgings, generally preferring the austerity of a battle camp to the opulence of castle living, but he had to admit that he was growing fond of Littlefinger's plush mattress and fine linens. As the cool light of morning poured through the window casement, Jaime Lannister reclined against the pillows, both his good and gold index fingers steepled at his chin, and contemplated what he would do about Harrold Hardyng.

He'd gleaned only the most basic information from little Lady Stark, and even that came only after he deigned to render himself a total nuisance. He lurked about, read letters over her shoulder, talked circles around her until she accidentally uttered something interesting. "Why won't you let her be?" Brienne had hissed after one such evening, steering him away from Sansa with a vise-like grip on his upper arm. After silently chastising himself for helping the wench regain the strength in her hands, Jaime had briefly considered explaining his strategy to Brienne, but quickly thought better of it. _She's become so fond of that girl..._

And Sansa Stark _was _a likeable little thing; Jaime would allow that much. She possessed both pleasant, courtly manners and a surprisingly biting wit, and teasing her turned out to be far more fun than he ever expected. Even so, he'd indulged her stubbornness for far too long. She held a position of influence, this was true; Jaime continued to experience astonishment at the dumb, dog-like loyalty these Vale soldiers showed toward their former Lord's "daughter". _Daft buffoons, the lot of them..._but then, Littlefinger had always liked to be by far the cleverest individual in any situation.

But with a new Lord Protector in the Vale, the balance of power would shift significantly. Jaime had been surprised to learn that the Vale lords, pompous and self-important as they were, had decided to send a man so young and inexperienced to rule in Lord Robert's stead. Sansa once referred to the boy as "Harry the Heir", but snapped her lips shut as soon as Jaime pressed her for more. He'd have to try again later.

Of course, the young man's age would work to Jaime's advantage. A green lad, a squire newly minted as a knight...no doubt he'd spent his childhood idolizing the men of the Kingsguard. The Lannister name would have done little to endear him to the senior Vale Lords, whose views of allegiance harkened back to a time in the distant past, when the Vale had been a sovereign nation. While not openly rebellious, these Valemen were markedly disinterested in the politics of King's Landing, and his connection to Cersei and Tommen would raise little more than a bored eyebrow. But a boy of Harry's generation, who'd grown up hearing tales of the famous Kingslayer...here he'd have more influence, he was sure of it. He could make use of his time in the Vale, gain a valuable ally for Tommen, and finally escape the pretty little clutches of Sansa Stark.

Jaime Lannister had never thought of himself as a strategist; he'd always left the heavy thinking to his father, Cersei and Tyrion. But sitting here in the chambers of a master manipulator, an elegant, well-conceived plan burgeoning in his brain- he caught a glimpse of his handsome face in a looking glass, indulged himself in a wide smile of pride.

A light sound of girlish laughter caught his attention. He glanced toward the ornate tapestry on the opposite wall, where the stone grew thin and the outline of a door could be perceived in the correct light. He suspected that Sansa knew about the door- _probably why she put me here, so I wouldn't try to run- _but the panel...that was something else entirely.

He'd come upon it quite by accident, while inspecting the fine weave of the tapestry. A section near the edge, where the light passed through somewhat differently...he pressed a curious eye to the fabric, astonished to find himself looking directly into Sansa's bedchamber. A chill pricked down his back as he imagined Littlefinger's use of such a device- _Petyr, Petyr, what have you done? _For his part, he'd placed a chair against that point in the wall, a barrier that was symbolic more than physical. It had seemed the only noble course of action.

He sat in the chair now, determined to press only his ear to the panel. He heard a rustling of fabric, a scandalized gasp, Sansa's voice in a hushed stammer:

"Mya, this...this is indecent."

A bright laugh from the other girl- that pretty, dark-haired chit with the wicked smile that Jaime found unpleasantly familiar. "Don't be silly, Alay-_ Sansa_. You're a woman grown now, and a beauty at that. Ser Harry needs to see that...needs to see _you_."

In a move that would leave him feeling altogether lascivious, Jaime tilted his head to glance through the opening. He saw Mya standing in front of the bed, clad in some boyish, Brienne-like tunic-and-breeches combination. She tugged at the laces of Sansa's gown, tightening the bodice, and turned the Stark girl to face the looking glass.

Jaime felt his stomach give a hard lurch at the sight of her. "Indecent" may have been a slightly extreme estimation, but the dress did cling to her curves, dipping low over her ample breasts, emphasizing her widening hips and narrow waist. The silver-blue shade highlighted the deep color of her eyes, the rosy tint of her cheeks. She was glorious, a radiant northern vision.

_So this has been her strategy all along...clever girl._

He'd still try, of course, wouldn't admit defeat without a valiant effort.

But hero worship was unlikely to trump the charms of a beautiful woman- simply by virtue of her comeliness, the Stark girl would have the clear advantage, and she knew it.

_Well played, little wolf. _


	5. Chapter 5

**_[Author's Note: _I want to take this opportunity to give a big huge THANK YOU to my reviewers. Your feedback means so much to me! And in celebration, I bring you a supersized chapter, twice as long as any of the others. Enjoy (and keep telling me what you think)! -LM]**

A message declaring Ser Harrold Hardyng's intention to arrive within the week came on the tail of a snowstorm. Mild, yes- the white dust barely coated the ground, most of it melting before it left the air- but Sansa saw it for what it was: a harbinger of the impending, inevitable harshness of the season. _Winter is coming...no. Winter is __**here.**_

She'd done her part to prepare the little auxiliary castle for Ser Harry's arrival- more than her part, really, as many of the household staff remained too stricken by the recent attack to work effectively. She bustled about the building, making sure that beds were turned down, food was plentiful, fires stoked. Occasionally, she managed to convince Sweetrobin to help her with the more minor tasks; he misliked leaving his comfortable chambers, but Sansa bribed him with promises of stories and sweets until he demurred. The sight of the fragile child moving about with some semblance of purpose brought a fledgling sort of hope to her heart, as though she could will his health to improve, will him to live._ Petyr would be so disappointed_...but she couldn't think of that now.

She spent more time than she would have liked examining her wardrobe, soliciting Mya's advice on what she should wear to greet the new Lord Protector. Nearly all of her dresses strained in the bodice now- in the fervor of moving down from the Eyrie, she hadn't thought to have new ones made. When she expressed this concern to Mya, the other girl laughed, insisting that a bodice full-to-bursting could only help her in this pursuit. Sansa had blushed a brilliant scarlet, but she accepted the truth of Mya's words.

She'd known not what to do with her hair- she acquired a red coloring from a woman in the village, a pigment supposedly used by courtesans in the East. But perhaps that would be too much...perhaps she'd be better off revealing herself to Harry in time, rather than rousing his suspicion the moment he saw her. Choosing to favor caution, Sansa instead reapplied the dark dye, a twinge of sadness coursing through her as the auburn vanished from her roots. _Not much longer now_... She repeated the words to herself over and over, a constant reminder, a constant boost for her morale.

If, however, she intended to reveal her true identity on her own terms, she'd have to contend with those who possessed the information already. She could trust in Mya's discretion, she felt sure- the girl was accustomed to keeping secrets, and they'd certainly grown friendly enough...[Petyr's voice in her ear, telling her to trust no one..._but who is he to say, what does he know, he's dead and I'm alive and the game is mine now...]_

Perhaps she should worry about Brienne, should suspect some deviousness beneath that plain, honest mien...but somehow she knew that if she went to the Maid of Tarth, looked in her pretty blue eyes and asked her to keep quiet- she felt with bone-deep certainty that the knight would respect her wishes.

And then there was one._ Jaime Lannister. What to do, what to do?_ After days of fretting and pacing and hand-wringing, she finally pushed her pride deep down inside and asked to speak with him privately. She fixed his handsome face with a sober stare, spoke quietly and evenly, skin prickling with distaste at having to explain herself to him, having to ask for his help.

Coming to the end of her speech, she said in as grave a tone as she could manage: "If what you say is true, Ser Jaime, if you came to the Vale to keep me safe...if that oath still means anything to you, you'll do as I ask."

He listened quietly, an elbow on the tabletop, his right cheek resting on his golden index finger. She liked the expression on his face not at all; emerald eyes crinkled slightly, lips curved up in a barely discernible smile. One beat, two...no response...she knew, she remembered Petyr telling her of the power of silence, but Sansa didn't like it, didn't like it at all...someone needed to say _something..._

After what seemed an eternity, Jaime Lannister finally spoke, a lilting curiosity in his drawl:

"You mean to marry this boy."

If the question (nay, the_ statement_) rattled her, Sansa offered no indication. She reminded herself to focus on her breathing...Petyr always told her to return to the essentials when she felt cornered...in, out, in, out.

She met Jaime's eyes, worked to mirror his nonchalant expression, allowed her voice to sound flippant and breezy when she finally deigned to reply:

"And what if I do?"

He leaned forward, and she forced herself to remain in place, resisting every instinct compelling her to recoil...

She'd long ago grown used to southron accents, barely noticed the differences anymore...but Jaime Lannister's every syllable scraped at her like metal on metal, until she wanted to clap her hands over her ears..._Stay calm, or he wins._

"In that case, I do feel compelled to remind you that you are already married, little sister."

She set her jaw, replied in clipped tones, knowing that the flush on her cheeks would betray her anger:

"You are no brother of mine. My brothers are dead."

He nodded in sober acknowledgement, and she thought she detected a glimmer of pity in his eyes. She'd learned to detest pity, to reject it as useless and ultimately damaging.

She really shouldn't have said anything more- _he'll do as he likes, you don't owe him anything_- but the next words tumbled from her mouth before she could restrain them: "I mean to have the marriage to Lord Tyrion set aside. It was never consummated."

"Really?" A lift of golden eyebrows and a note of genuine surprise in his voice. Sansa felt her face burning, hated herself for entering into this conversation, this topic that could do nothing but render her vulnerable. Jaime leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms over his chest. "That is...not like my brother."

Something in his casual tone reignited her rage- of all of Petyr's lessons, she'd only been unable to master the control of her anger. He insisted that anger was distracting, would interfere with deliberate action and process...but try as she might, she could never fully suppress the burning tendrils of fury that could come upon her so suddenly. Her words came in an abrupt hiss, her set jaw aching with tension.

"I was a little girl, newly flowered and terrified. He never laid a hand on me. Your father was furious, but he would not. He was..." A slight sting of shame pricked at her heart, and she hoped her voice did not sound strained as she continued, "...kind to me."

Jaime's eyes closed briefly, and she would swear she saw a shadow of pain pass over his insufferable, arrogant face. "Yes. Well, then. You'll have your marriage overturned, captivate Ser Harry with your considerable charms..."- she pursed her lips but refrained from interrupting - "..then, I expect, some tragic incident shall befall little Lord Arryn, and you'll have the Vale. The Vale and all its soldiers, riding at your back as you forge North to claim Winterfell."

She felt as though she'd been kicked in the stomach, air leaving her lungs, a dull ache in her midsection. _Do I deny it?_ Her eyes darted this way and that, her mind scrambling...she barely noticed when he began to speak once more:: "An elegant plan. Littlefinger's, I suppose?"

No, there was no purpose in denial. Sansa smiled, lips stretched tight, and gave the only answer that seemed relevant: "Does it matter?"

He laughed hoarsely- whether there was mockery in the sound, she couldn't tell. Regardless, she knew that she'd do well to remove herself from the situation before revealing anything more.

_He's already got enough to use against me...I don't need to arm him further._ She placed her palms on the table, half-rising from her seat.

"I've told you what I want you to do, Ser Jaime. Either you will or you won't. "

He nodded, still smiling. "Indeed."

When she stood, he rose as well, giving her a flourishing bow that was absolutely meant to mock. She responded with a piercing glare before sweeping from the room.

_Petyr would tell me to think quickly, would say that there must always be an alternate plan, that any situation can be remedied with fast problem-solving._

She thought of Petyr's large solar in the Eyrie, wished she had an equivalent spot for contemplation. The little room outside Petyr's bedchamber was too small and cramped to be a proper setting for deep thought. Also, Jaime Lannister had done his part to add to the clutter; she peeked through the door, wrinkled her brow at the sight of his armor and weaponry strewn about.

In the end, she wrapped herself in a cloak, swiped a lemon cake from the kitchens, and retreated to the gardens. The bracing cold seeped through the fabric of her clothing, but she welcomed it as a sharp reminder to remain alert and focused. She glanced behind her at the imprints made by her feet in the thin layer of snow.

She imagined what the snowfall must be in Winterfell and puffed a little sigh, her breath visible in the crisp air.

* * *

><p>The sharp scent of viscera in her nostrils- more than she could bear- she flattened herself against the wall, turned her head into the doorway, retched until a greenish film of stomach acid coated the marble of the floor. On the ground nearby, Littlefinger in a puddle of dark, dark blood, his eyes open, unblinking. The thing hunched over him moved away from the corpse, heaving a wet, rattling breath. Its hair the color that Sansa's once was, its face almost like...so close to...<p>

She wished for half a second to embrace the creature, to ignore its grotesqueness and imagine that her mother had truly returned to her. But then it moved, with unnatural quickness, its skeletal hands closing around Brienne's throat. The Maid of Tarth's face went bright crimson, then nearly violet as she sputtered and flailed. Jaime Lannister and Sandor Clegane, surrounded by their own fresh kills, running, trying in vain to pry the creature from Brienne, swords driving into its snow-white flesh...but no blood. Nothing but clean incisions, nothing to quell the terrifying strength...Brienne fell to her knees, losing color so fast...

And then she had Brienne's greatsword in both hands, struggling under its weight- she didn't think, didn't look, didn't breathe- just stepped between the two men, wrapped her arms around the thing's shoulders (tried hard not to look at the face, not to touch the hair...), sliced the blade across its exposed neck.

Blood, blood everywhere- thick and sticky and black...not red, not anything like she'd ever seen, but black, black, black...

And she was screaming, keening like an animal- she thought she heard her name called, somewhere, but she just kept screaming...

"Father!"

When her eyes snapped open, her raw throat informed her that she'd shouted not only in the dream, but in earnest. "Father"...she knew not whether she'd been calling for Petyr Baelish or for Eddard Stark...but the hands that shook her awake, the hands now settled on her shoulders, definitely belonged to Jaime Lannister.

She felt the metallic chill of his golden hand through the thin fabric of her nightshift- she shuddered, heart thumping loudly enough to make her head ache. Her bedlinens twisted around her legs, hair standing up at all ends, a heavy sheen of sweat on her skin- she was sure she looked frightful, and her first instinct was to pull away from him, to order him out. Doing so may have come as a relief to him as well; Sansa could feel the fingers of his left hand begin to twitch, as though he was unsure whether to remove it from her shoulder. _He heard me screaming bloody murder- bloody, bloody murder...- and came to help...I suppose that counts for something._

And suddenly, she felt cold- intensely, painfully cold. Her body began to shake, violently enough to make her muscles sore and her teeth clack together. The iciness filtered through veins and gripped her bones, and her mind darkened with the thought that she may never be warm again. When Jaime Lannister pulled the fur covering around her back, drawing her to him, she frantically nestled into his body, tried to access whatever heat she could.

Once the chill started to abate, she became uncomfortably aware of her forehead, pressed against the bare skin of Ser Jaime's chest. He wore one of Littlefinger's bedlinens tied round his waist, but she knew he'd been sleeping naked._ Men seem to prefer sleeping so...the boys always did, Robb and Jon and Theon...even Father, I think._

_But Petyr always wore a nightshirt._

Petyr would come to her bed through the secret door- not every night, but with enough regularity that she learned to expect it. He'd recline on his side behind her, hands skimming over her arms and back, always drawing her dull-colored hair to the side and lightly kissing the nape of her neck. She'd squeeze her eyes shut, tight tight tight, trying so hard to seem asleep. Then he'd draw her tighter, whisper her mother's name into her hair, and Sansa- there she was Sansa, not Alayne, at least- would push her face into the pillow, willing herself to keep the tears at bay.

There was none of that here- Jaime's hands went no lower than her shoulder blades, and he held her as securely and chastely as Robb might have done, a lifetime ago. He spoke not a word, and she was grateful for this still, almost benevolent presence. She thought of the constant pacing beyond the wall- he rarely, if ever, slept through the night. _He probably knows something of nightmares, too._

She listened to the thumping of his heart under her ear- the soothing sound caused her eyelids to droop slightly, but she forced them to remain open.

Her voice sounded far away as she asked, "Do they ever go away?" She'd never dreamed like this before, so vividly and tangibly...

He tightened his arms around her, lowering his head until his cheek pressed against her tousled hair. "No. But you'll grow used to it."

That possibility frightened her most of all.

Perhaps it was the intimacy of skin against skin...perhaps the rhythmic beating of his heart...perhaps her own damnable tendency to talk too much...some force possessed her, pulled the next words from her lips: "I didn't kill Joffrey."

He placed a finger under her chin, tilted her head up until she gazed directly into his eyes. She marvelled, not for the first time, over how closely he resembled his sister, although the kindness of his present expression had surely never appeared on Cersei's face. "I know."

"If you take me back there, she'll kill me."

He blinked, his eyebrows knitting together. "That was never my intention."

She realized that she wanted to believe him...and in that moment, she almost could. But she hadn't forgotten the conversation from earlier, couldn't forget his glib attitude about her request and her own simmering anger. She pushed herself upright, blushing only a bit when her hand grazed accidentally over his leg._ Best just to ask._ "Are you going to tell Harry who I am?"

He cupped his left hand over her shoulder, giving it a squeeze that could be interpreted as compassionate. "I have to admit, I'm growing quite curious to see how this scheme of yours will unfold." He paused, smiled. "If I blurt it out right away...well, there'd be no fun in that, little bird."

_Little bird_. She shuddered, and Jaime, mistaking the motion for a shiver of cold, gathered her to him again. She imagined, as she often did when Petyr would pull her to his chest, that the arms encircling her were Sandor's, and she felt the warmth return to her body in a sudden wave. Jaime noticed as well, and he released her with a smile. "Until tomorrow, my lady," he whispered, stepping through the secret door and easing it closed.

She watched him go, watched the moonlight paint his golden hair with a brilliant glow and play over the contours of his muscled back. Falling back onto the pillows, she let herself think of Sandor's ruined lips on hers, let herself enjoy the tingling in her body that always accompanied the memory. She felt light, heady, relieved by Jaime's decision to comply with her wishes...she snuggled her face into the pillow (still lightly fragranced with the scent of Jaime's skin), let her eyes flutter shut.

But in the darkness behind her eyelids, all she saw was blood.


	6. Chapter 6

**_Author's Note: _ **Sorry it's taken me a while to update this one! This other story I've been writing, _Auribus Teneo Lupum, _has hijacked my brain ("moth to a flame"- _Daria, _anyone?). But here's chapter six. It's a bit more atmospheric than plot-propelling, but I had a lot of fun with it anyway. Thanks as always for reading!

* * *

><p>The hard clash of steel against steel, echoing between stone walls; to Brienne's ears, the most welcome sound in the world. The little castle courtyard could hardly replace a true training ground, but it sufficed for basic skill practice. With the Oathkeeper between her fists, the chilly air of winter around her, her muscles quick and responsive once again, she felt more alive than she had in weeks. She was glad for the company, too- Jaime would spar with her, of course, and now that Pod had the use of his legs, he could be counted upon to join in. But most of all, she was glad for Harry Hardyng.<p>

On the second day of his visit, Ser Harry came upon Brienne and Jaime in the courtyard. He perched on a stone wall, watching intently, and Brienne felt Jaime immediately quicken his pace, intensify his strength. Having grown accustomed to a more casual tempo, Brienne needed to expend real effort against her partner for the first time in quite a while. When she finally pinned Jaime to the wall, her forearm pressed against his neck, she found herself startled- almost frightened- by the angry glint in his green eyes.

Ser Harry approached her afterwards, complimented her on her performance. She scanned his face shrewdly, prepared to detect any hint of derision or mockery; she was surprised to discover nothing but earnest admiration in his expression. He eagerly accepted Jaime's invitation to join, and Brienne found herself fighting opposite a truly challenging opponent. Jaime was still capable of besting her at the top of his form, but Harry- young, strong, quick on his feet- defeated her at least every other turn. He showed her no leniency; she was accustomed to men underestimating her strength on the basis of her gender, but he met each of her strikes with equal ferocity. Afterwards, she shook out her aching limbs, wiped the sweat from her brow, watched Harry, still full of energy, square off against Jaime.

She noticed the differences immediately. The untrained eye would see nothing but a pair of skilled swordsmen evenly matched, but Brienne observed the tiny response delays from Harry, watched his muscles tense in an effort to restrain his force. When Jaime began to back his opponent into the corner of the courtyard, Brienne caught a glimpse of his face and knew that Jaime had realized it as well: _Harry's letting him win._

The three of them- four, once Pod arrived toward the end- continued for much of the afternoon, until Harry departed to change his clothes for the feast that evening. Pod accompanied him to the castle, leaving Jaime and Brienne alone on the stone wall.

"You're getting better all the time," Brienne offered cheerfully, although she knew the moment the words passed her lips that Jaime would not thank her for the sentiment. He twisted his face into a juvenile glower, one that would have been comical on anyone else. "That was a fine show, you and Hardyng," he hissed, kicking the heel of his boot hard against the wall. "Lucky thing we had Pod here, else I'd just be in the way."

"Don't be ridiculous," she replied, wincing inwardly at her own disingenuous tone. Jaime noticed, too- he fixed her with a harsh glare, as though daring her to continue. She sighed. "Jaime, I'm sorr-"

"_Don't._" He turned his eyes from her, jaw working furiously under his skin. Had she been another sort of woman, she might have tried to touch him, tried to soothe him- but Brienne of Tarth only gripped the edge of the wall, leaned her shoulders into his air space.

"This is getting fairly tiresome, the business with your hand," she clipped, taking note of the shocked expression on his face; she'd never been so blunt with him before. "You aren't the only one who's lost something...or haven't you noticed that half my face is missing?" She punctuated the question with a gesture toward her ravaged cheek.

She expected him to respond with a biting jape- honestly, she'd only introduced the subject of her face into the conversation in order to provide him with an opening. He rarely missed an opportunity to mock her physical appearance; she anticipated some dry drawl about the uselessness of her face before, about how the scarring might be an improvement. She hoped the jesting might elevate his mood, but he only met her eyes, shook his head, and slid off of the wall, shoulders tense as he stalked away toward the castle. Brienne watched until he disappeared past the heavy wooden doors, heaved a great sigh as she folded her hands over the hilt of her sword. _He's impossible, when he gets to talking this way..._she only hoped that he'd keep his frustration contained and would refrain from spoiling Sansa's-_Alayne's-_celebration.

They'd been better together, Sansa and Jaime- she no longer avoided him nearly to the point of rudeness, he no longer tormented her with rhetorical questions and thinly-veiled insults. If not a friendliness, then at least a mutual detente existed between them, and Brienne felt relieved to abandon her position as peacekeeper. She was unsure, however, how long this ceasefire would last; in the day and a half since Harry's arrival, she felt a new sort of animosity in the air, the nature of which she did not fully understand until the feast that evening.

* * *

><p>It all began pleasantly enough. The visiting Vale Lords and their ladies had only kind words and condolences for Alayne Stone; they held an obvious fondness for her, one that Brienne hoped was genuine. They sat for the feast, Harry placed at the head of the table. Sansa claimed the seat to his right, Jaime the one to his left.<p>

"Should not Lord Arryn be seated beside the Lord Protector?" Brienne muttered as Jaime passed by. He answered her with a shrug and a smile; the sight of him dressed in clean clothing, his hair combed and beard trimmed, reminded her that he was, in fact, an exceptionally handsome man. _Strange, how easy it is to forget._

Harry cut a fine figure himself, with his close-cropped dark curls and merry face. A little twinge pricked at her heart when she realized that he put her in mind of Renly. And then, of course, Sansa, splendid in a pale blue gown that made her eyes shine..._well, like sapphires, I suppose. _

Brienne found herself placed between Jaime and Lord Robert Arryn, who seemed to think nothing of taking what he liked from her plate without asking her consent. _I've never seen a sickly child with such an appetite, _she mused as the lordling casually swiped all of her duck legs and a chunk of raisin-studded bread.

Jaime and Harry both seemed to favor the liquid offerings at the table; they drank glass after glass of mulled wine, their conversation growing more animated with each passing sip. She let herself listen and although she'd heard most of them before, she became entranced by Jaime's rich, colorful stories of battle. Brienne smiled as she watched the play of candlelight on his golden hair, the effusive energy of his expression: _Gods, he looks ten years younger._

Sansa directed most of her attention toward Myranda Royce and her ladies, chatting and gossiping like the vapid girl Brienne knew she was not. She made little effort to divert Harry from his conversation with Jaime; but then, she did not have to try. Even as he laughed and gasped and inquired, Harry's eyes continued to waver away from Jaime, settling on the lovely dark-haired girl on his other side. Though she believed she might like Harry, Brienne had no fondness for the way he watched Sansa- his smile grew a bit too broad, his gaze fell a bit too low on her bodice. She recalled overhearing Myranda Royce, earlier that morning, mention something about a bastard...

Inevitably, the Royces started to question Jaime's and Brienne's presence in the Vale. They did so with the utmost courtesy, of course, but Brienne still found herself thoroughly tongue-tied. While she sputtered and murmured like a simpleton, Jaime easily deflected the inquiries- something about serving as ambassadors to the king, providing support after Littlefinger's untimely passing. She couldn't rightly tell whether the Vale lords believed the story, but they pressed him no farther.

As the feast continued, Brienne couldn't help but cast a disapproving eye on the two men at the head of the table, both of whom were well into their cups. Jaime's speech began to slur, and Harry's appraisal of Sansa ceased to be at all clandestine. But then, she felt a bit light in the head herself; she'd only consumed two glasses of Arbor wine, but she had little to eat, having spent most of the meal at the mercy of little Lord Arryn's sticky hands and impertinent questions. When the child finally went down to bed, kicking and squalling all the way, Sansa gestured to the musicians to begin the dancing.

Brienne fully expected Harry to ask Sansa to dance- fully expected to glare at him until he moved his hands away from her hips- but he offered his hand to Lady Myranda instead. Jaime leaned into Brienne, nudging her arm with his elbow. "What do you say, wench?"

"My arms are still quite sore from earlier...I'd rather not drag you across the floor when your legs give way, you drunken fool." She surprised herself with the snappish reply- _perhaps this is why I don't drink wine...- _but Jaime only laughed.

"As you say, my lady." He rose from his chair and crossed behind Sansa, gripping the back of her seat and leaning over her shoulder. "Will you do me the honor, Lady Alayne?"

Sansa rolled her blue eyes up to look at him, but her serious expression was quickly compromised by a fleeting smile. "I will, Ser Jaime. But please keep in mind that I'm even less equipped to carry you about than the Lady Brienne."

Brienne leaned back in her chair, her eyes growing heavy with drink and exhaustion. She smiled as she watched Jaime and Sansa move about the floor- _so pretty, the both of them. _The tableau became less idyllic, however, when Jaime leaned forward to whisper something in Sansa's ear. The girl kept her smile, but her lips grew noticeably tighter when she replied. They went back and forth that way for a while, Sansa's fingers biting deeper and deeper into Jaime's arm. Brienne dropped her head into her hand, heaved a frustrated sigh.

* * *

><p>The feast ended, the guests retired to their chambers, and Jaime and Brienne did as they always did: took a walk about the grounds, breathing the crisp air before parting for the night.<p>

"You're awfully quiet. Bit too much wine, eh?" Jaime grinned, and Brienne rolled her eyes.

"As though you're in any position to judge." She turned her head and gave him her most serious stare. "Jaime, what did you say to Lady Sansa, while you were dancing?"

He shrugged, tossed his hair. "I merely asked the Lady Alayne a few _simple _questions about her upcoming marriage." He pulled up one of his tunic sleeves; deep, crescent-shaped imprints marred the skin of his upper arm. "She has sharp claws, our little wolf girl."

"Marriage?" A startled Brienne halted her steps. Jaime's lips curled into a smirk, something dark and undefinable lurking in his eyes.

"Yes. To your precious Harry Hardyng, no less. Try not to be too heartsick over it, wench...it was never meant to be between you."

She felt the inclination to shove him into the thorny bushes, but instead mirrored his unpleasant smile. "Jealousy suits you not at all."

He replied with a glare and a dry, derisive laugh, but refrained from commenting. Several moments of silence passed before he spoke again. "They'll want to have it done soon, I suppose. She can't wait much longer to move north, not with the snows approaching."

"And what will we do?" Brienne had quite deliberately attempted to avoid this question, but there was no ignoring it now.

Jaime took a deep breath and exhaled in a huff. "Well, Brienne, we haven't any men. Nor any horses. Nor any weapons save our own swords. The only way for us to acquire any of those things is through the little Lady of the Vale and her suitor. So I suppose we'll be going North."

Brienne paused to reflect. A more genuine smile spread across her face, and she spoke in a tone that she knew Jaime would find vexing in its innocence: "I've never been North."

She received the expected glance of disdain, but she continued nonetheless. "It mightn't be such a bad thing. We could be useful...we could have a purpose with them, going there."

"A purpose?" Jaime scoffed. "Their purpose. _Her _purpose. What is the North to us, Brienne?"

"It's something to do." She put a heavy hand on his shoulder. "You could try to go back to King's Landing, let your sister send you on more silly errands, just to keep you busy and out of her way." The deep hurt in his eyes told her that she'd hit her mark. "Or you can help me do what we promised Lady Catelyn. You can bring Sansa Stark home."

He looked at her, she looked at him. When he nodded, she drew her arm around his shoulders in as close to an embrace as she ever cared to give.


	7. Chapter 7

Jaime Lannister had little talent for sleeping soundly. Years of training, first as a squire and then as a knight, taught him to rise early, rise often, and keep one ear alert at all times. Therefore, the light rustling in the antechamber proved more than enough to rouse him from his sleep and pique his vigilance. More out of habit than actual concern, Jaime reached for the dagger he kept by his bed- but when he turned his head and noticed the traces of light entering from the opening in the wall, he placed the blade back down. A smirk ghosted across his face as he slipped on a pair of breeches and quietly stepped to the open passageway leading to the tiny solar.

Dim as the chamber was, he caught sight only of a pale ankle and foot resting atop a settee. He moved closer and found her wedged behind a large shelving unit, wispy little fingers reaching for a dust-covered leatherbound book in the corner. He momentarily considered moving the shelf out of the way to help her gain access, but instead leaned against the doorframe, his voice loud and bracingly cheerful: "Well met, Lady Alayne."

A shriek and a bump, and Sansa crawled out, dark hair coated with dust, hands clutching the ratty old tome. She sat up on her heels and lifted a hand to rub the lump growing on her forehead, glowering at him all the while. He replied by stretching his smile even wider. "What brings you here at this hour, my lady?"

"It's morning," she replied curtly. Bracing a hand on the settee, she slowly rose to her feet. "Besides, I'm the lady of this house. I may go where I like."

"Of course." Her shoulders tensed when he sauntered toward her and sat on the little velveteen pouf, his finger running down the spine of the book she held. "And what's this?"

"A book." He rolled his eyes at that, reaching out to lightly pinch the skin at the back of her knee. She jumped, gave an indignant little squeak, but he saw her smile a bit, too. As Sansa seemed disinclined to elaborate, Jaime gripped the edge of the book with his left hand. Sansa only held it tighter, so he pulled her until she fell nearly on his lap, then swatted her hands out of the way to open the front cover.

He squinted hard in an effort to read the faded script on yellowing pages- _Gods, I'm getting old. _To add to the challenge, the book was old enough that much of the text had been written in High Valyrian, of which he possessed only a passing knowledge. Still, he managed to decipher a key phrase in the title that proved enlightening: "Marriage Law," he read aloud, his eyebrows darting upward when he caught sight of the subtitle: "Plural Marriage."

Startled green eyes glanced upward at Sansa, who would have very successfully sold him on her obstinacy if not for the little twitch just under her left eye. She still grasped the edge of the book loosely in one hand; she tightened her grip and pulled, but even with his weaker hand, Jaime had no trouble keeping his hold.

"And here I thought you intended to annul the marriage to Tyrion." When she failed to reply, he lifted his shoulders, sharpened his gaze. "What exactly are you plotting?" he inquired in a tone of far greater gravity than usual.

"Why do you think it any concern of yours?" she snapped back. Even in the faint light of early morning, he could see a vermilion flush erupting on her cheeks. Her voice grew shriller with each syllable when she continued: "Why must you plague me with these questions? I've tried to do right by you, tried to keep you comfortable, and all you do is _bother _me! What does it matter to you, who I marry or how it comes to be?"

Jaime didn't rise from the settee, but he leaned his shoulders toward her, eyes narrowing, his hushed voice nearly menacing. "Whether you choose to acknowledge it or no, you are a member of my family, wedded to my brother. Any dishonor you bring upon him reflects on me as well."

"Dishonor?" She laughed, a hard, grating sound that reminded him of his more recent encounters with Cersei. "What have you to say about honor, Ser Kingslayer? And my marriage to Tyrion...after Joffrey died, after we parted ways-"

"After you abandoned him." Jaime uttered the words through gritted teeth. Sansa gave a sharp gasp of horrified astonishment, punctuated by a distinctly unladylike smack on his bare shoulder.

"What would you have done? What _choice _did I have? Should I have stayed, let your bloody sister put my head on a spike for something I _never did_?" She followed the last phrase with another hit to his arm; he caught both her wrists in his left hand, squeezed tightly enough that the bones ground together.

"Calm yourself, girl," he hissed. She struggled in his grasp, breaths coming in heavy pants, the flush creeping down from her cheeks to spread over her collarbone and the soft curvature at the neckline of her shift. He realized he was staring, reminded himself to look back up at her face. The outrage was fading, replaced with a troubling combination of shame and anxiety. Jaime found himself suddenly regretting the harshness of his words; he loosened his grip on her wrists and spoke with something resembling true contrition. "I'm sorry."

She nodded, and the motion caused a few specks of dust to float down from her hair and settle on his. He slid over on the duvet, guided her to sit beside him, and handed her the book, which she placed upon her lap. She kept her eyes focused downward, rubbing her wrists as she murmured: "I'm to be married tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" The sharp surprise in his voice caused a startled little lift of her shoulders. Sansa nodded, still avoiding his eyes, and Jaime felt a heavy pressure in his head, a combination of confusion, frustration, and a strange little twinge of regret. There was so much to ask, he could hardly decide where to begin. _Does Harry know who she is? Do the Vale Lords? And the marriage to Tyrion, she couldn't have had it annulled already..."Plural Marriage", oh Gods..._

Suddenly grateful for Sansa's refusal to look him in the face, Jaime took a moment to adjust his stricken expression, replacing it with a sneer. Rather than ask any of the questions swirling in his mind, he broke the silence thus: "I believe that congratulations are in order, my lady. Not only for your upcoming marriage, but for the masterful execution of your plan. You're as clever a strategist as Littlefinger could have hoped."

"If that were true, I would have waited until it was done to tell you." Her cheeks grew bright, and she hastily pulled her hair over her shoulder to conceal the blush.

Jaime felt the ridiculous urge to brush her hair back behind her ears, but restrained himself from acting on it. Instead, he leaned slightly in her direction, his upper arm bumping against her shoulder. "Then why didn't you?"

"Petyr once said that nothing brings people together like mutual necessity," she replied before tilting her head upward, fixing her blue eyes on his green ones. "And I suppose we quite need each other, do we not?"

He laughed hoarsely. "As your hostage" - Sansa glowered, and his leonine smile only

grew brighter- "I suppose I am rather at your mercy, yes." She started to shake her head, but she proved unable to control the grin teasing at her lips. Jaime laughed again, draping his arm around her shoulders and drawing her toward him. "Ah, I knew it. You've grown fond of the power, haven't you?"

"I don't think I ever claimed otherwise." She shifted a bit, but made no effort to remove herself from his hold. "So now you know. I can't stop you from trying to ruin everything, if that's what you're bent on doing. But you're not a fool, Jaime. If this marriage happens, we'll both have what we want. I'll get Winterfell back, and once that's done, you'll have all the men and horses you need to take you wherever you wish to go."

"Is that right?"

"Would you have me swear it?" Jaime felt quite taken aback by the earnestness of her expression- he'd only before encountered such forthright conviction from Brienne. _And, of course, from Eddard Stark._

"Well, Sansa, this may sound hopelessly naive- but I actually believe you." Her eyebrows lifted as she nodded. He continued: "I can't imagine what my family would think of me, taking a Stark at her word...but then, I never was the clever one."

Sansa smiled again. "I think that you underestimate yourself in that respect." She slid from the duvet and placed her hand on his shoulder. "Thank you."

As she stepped toward the passage into his bedroom, the heavy book in her hands, Jaime called out to her: "Will you indulge me in just one question?"

She paused in the doorway, incisors sinking into her lower lip. After a moment of contemplation, she answered in the affirmative.

"How have you managed to put a wedding feast together so quickly?"

Her mouth twisted, and she heaved a little sigh before replying.

"There's to be no feast. Just Harry and me with the septon. And Brienne- I've asked her to be our witness."

"The Lord Protector of the Vale, wedded with no celebration?" Jaime furrowed his brow. "However did you convince him to consent to that?"

"It's the quickest way. He did not require much convincing." The blush returned to her cheeks, neck and chest.

Ordinarily, he might have laughed at that. But the memory of Harry's eyes roving over Sansa's body rankled him, and he frowned instead. "Of course."

She continued to linger in the doorway; he noticed her pigeon-toed stance, her fingers twisting in the skirt of her nightshift. He took stock of her posture, her fidgeting, and he spoke in a tone that he knew she'd find infuriating in its nonchalance: "Don't tell me the little wolf girl is nervous?"

"Nervous?" Sansa tossed her hair and knit her brows together. "About reclaiming Winterfell? Of course I'm nervous about that."

She was being deliberately obtuse, and Jaime immediately clarified. "About your wedding. About Harry."

"Harry?" She laughed, a distant, breathy sound. "Harry's only a boy."

"And what are you but a girl?" He stood and took two small steps in her direction.

Sansa straightened her back and turned her toes out until she faced him fully. With a lift of her chin: "I am a Stark of Winterfell."

He smiled, for once without a trace of derision. "That you are."

The sunlight leaking in from his bedchamber put her in silhouette, but he could sense her returning his smile, even in the shadow. She turned on her heel and walked toward the cedar chest at the foot of his bed, opening the lid and removing a clean tunic.

He'd followed her into the chamber; she turned to hand him the tunic. "You'd best make a habit of covering up. Me conversing with you while you're wearing so little is no longer appropriate, if it ever was to begin with."

Jaime laughed in earnest at that, and Sansa's lips twitched in an effort to keep from giggling herself. He accepted the tunic, swatting her arm with it before pulling it over his shoulders. "Out with you, little minx," he chuckled.

Before pulling the door in the wall shut, Sansa met his eyes once again. "This will be good for us all, Jaime. You'll see."

The hope in her eyes, so bright and fervent- in spite of the sudden ache pressing at his temples, Jaime could do nothing but nod.


End file.
